Friday, October 28, 2005

The Nazi

Halloween nears and to pay tribute, I'd like to enclose a poem I wrote a few years ago, along with most of The Raven, by E.A. Poe. (I left out about 4 stanzas.) This poem is such a favorite of mine. Not only do I love the spooky story but I think Edgar's use of alliteration, rhyme, and rhythm is freaking genius. I absolutely love it. MY poem, on the other hand, does not quite attain that same level, though I tried to emulate Edgar's as much as I could. I lined them up side-by-side so you could see the comparisons. In some places, I used the exact same word. In others, a similar word--only dumbed down in Jen Speak. In other places I looked up the meaning of his word and put a simpler equivalent in mine. For instance: to quaff means to drink deeply in a very thirsty way.

Now for some background on what my poem is about. At the BYU I had many experiences where I'd run into tennis court employees trying to enforce rules with no reason. In this particular case, I'd be playing tennis at one of the courts on campus and if I didn't have my ID, i'd get kicked off. This is an understandable reason given that they want to make sure actual BYU students (with proof of being a BYU student) get to use the courts. Except quite often, my partner and I would be basically the only people playing on any of the courts! Oh, i'm so sorry i didn't realize you wanted to reserve these empty courts for all the ghost BYU students. Ridiculous. I had so many instances of this that I had developed a 6th sense for detecting the Tennis Court Nazi. Now, you might be saying, why didn't you just remember to bring your ID? And to that i say, shut your trap! Read the poems. :)

Oh also, I apologize for the weird breaking up of lines. It was surprisingly difficult getting these into columns and trying to match up the stanzas. Hopefully it's not too choppy.

The NaziOnce upon an evening twilightI went to partake of my life’s highlightPlaying tennis by courtside lamplight,Getting exercise and fun galore.While we rallied, my backhand working,I felt a feeling somewhat irking.As of someone quietly lurking, lurkingIn the shadows of the court.“T’is nothing, nor no one” I uttered,As I returned with a strong hand-fore–“Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, so vividly I recall, it was in theBrisk of fall;And the trees, each and all, droppingLeaves upon the floor.Excited, I breathed anticipation, would aChampion from competitionArise from playing tonight? I questioned.Was my victory in store?Although my skills matched the other's,What would be the resulted score?My goal: To win the set, 6-4.

And the shaded shadowed lingererCausing me to jam my fingerShifted me--lifted me to familiarCaution I had felt before;So that now I'd be in denial tryingTo play, and all the whileI'd be saying "Some strange wind is gustingGusts behind me on the court--Some eerie wind is gusting gustsBehind me on the court.That it is, and nothing more."

As we rallied my breaths were growingAnd my moves, not really flowing,"What" blamed I, "is up with this freaky wind that I abhor?Because, you see, I'm trying to rally, and over there, my friend, my pal, heWill soon be taking, I fear, a tallyEach time I hit balls to a neighboring court.That I scarce can keep it in-bounds"--I faced the fore-ground of my court;--Wall and fence there, nothing more.

Back to the game I tried to turn, the acheOf dread in my gut burned,But soon again I felt the presence Somewhat harsher than before."May be" said I, "t'is a speculatorOr a hopeful fellow playerWe just got here, M'am or sir! Now,Go and find another court!Do you hear me, man or woman?"I turned my head like as before.T'was the wind, and nothing more!

Then this twenty-something fellow, aPompous look on face so mellowEmerged from the shadows, I approachedHim, leaving my racket on the floor."For what you ask, I haven't got, see?And though I know you're doing your 'Job,'see, I won't repute thee, O Tennis Nazi! For having no ID, kicking kids off Courts. Well I won't abide to mundane Rules, thus I sit planted on this court!"Quoth the Nazi, "nevermore."

But the Nazi stood purposefully; thisWord caused my mood to sullyThis one word spoken, deafening my ears With decibals, it seemed, one thousand-four.No other words from his throat voiced--This left me with no other choice--toBring forth my defense, rejoice!"Others have let me stay before--They aren't as calloused as some I know,Who've tried to boot me times before."Then the guy said "Nevermore."

Angered by this word of nonsense,As if to mock my retort and defense,"No doubt," said I, "what he stutters isA symbol of his rancor.Forced by lack of tennis skill, aPredator, prowling for his killSearching, lurking cardless students, toKick off yet one player more--So every "felon," and "lawbreaker" wouldHave to feel the pain he boreOf 'Never--nevermore."'

But there he stood, and my blood curdledSent my legs o'er fence I hurdled,Straight I pointed my short-nailed finger atAll the surrounding empty courts;Then, I named off countless reasons Why his "rules" were so unseasonedTrying to fathom, thinking, wondering What this brainless man of bore--What this dim, embittered, slave to rule Books, oh, this man of boreMeant in mumbling "Nevermore."

This I stood, in hopes to beat him, thinking'Maybe I can eat him'To this soul whose stupid reasonsScraped me silly to the core;After having retrieved my racket, I stared At his face, desiring to whack itOh I pondered this sweet action, thatI admit I would adore,But whose not sweet consequences wouldGive me troubles I'd not adore,He bugs me! ah, nevermore!

Then, I thought, the air grew colder,Heightened by my voice now bolderPushed at wit's end, to convince himTo allow me to keep my court."Dork," I cried, "Your boss has madeYou--by some spell, he has bade you,Along with your bitter motives, to removeMe from my court,Get a soda, and I tell you toForget me and my court!"Quoth the nazi, "Nevermore."

"Loser!" Said I, "thing of lameness!Loser still, at fault or blameless!--Whether employer sent, or whetherYour bitterness throws you to my court,All around me are courts a-plenty, all butMine are bare and empty--On this soil of cursed Nazis-- Leave meAlone, my court ignore!Will you?--is there hope among us?--Tell me!" I asked in my uproar.Quoth the Nazi "Nevermore."

And the Nazi, ne'r departing, is stillImparting, always impartingIn the shadows in the foreground likeAn ever-present sore;And his eyes have all reflection of aGerm spreading infection,Spits forth on me cardless detectionSo I know he's by my court;And my anger that re-kindles everyTime he nears my courtShall be lifted--nevermore!

The RavenOnce upon a midnight dreary, while IPondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volumeOf forgotten lore-While I nodded, nearly napping,Suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rappingAt my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered,“Tapping at my chamber door-Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in theBleak December;And each separate dying ember wroughtIts ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; --vainly IHad sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow-Sorrow for the lost Lenore-For the rare and radiant maiden whomThe angels name Lenore-Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me-filled me with fantasticTerrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of myHeart, I stood repeating“’Tis some visitor entreating entranceat my chamber door-Some late visitor entreating entranceAt my chamber door;--This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger;Hesitating then no longer,“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly yourforgiveness I implore’But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping,Tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you”-Here I opened wide the door;--Darkness there and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all mySoul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhatLouder than before.“Surely,” said I, “surely that issomething at my window latticeLet me see, then, what thereat is, andThis mystery explore-Let my heart be still a moment and thismystery explore;--“’T’is the wind and nothing more!”

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sadFancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of theCountenance it wore,“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,thou,’ I said, “art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient RavenWandering from the Nightly shore-Tell me what thy lordly name is on theNight’s Plutonian shore!”Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on thePlacid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in thatOne word he did outpour.Nothing farther then he uttered -not aFeather then he fluttered-Till I scarcely more than muttered“Other friends have flown before-On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”Then the bird said “nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless” said I, “what it utters Is its only stock and storeCaught from some unhappy master whomUnmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster Till His songs on burden bore-Till the dirges of his Hope thatMelancholy burden boreOf ‘Never-nevermore.’”

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat infront of bird, and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betookMyself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what thisOminous bird of yore-What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,Gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking “nevermore.”

Then, methought, the air grew denser,Perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-fallsTinkled on the tufted floor.“Wretch,” I cried, “Thy God hath lentthee-by these angels he hath sent theeRespite-respite and nepenthe from theMemories of Lenore,Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe andForget this lost Lenore!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” Said I, “thing of evil!Prophet still, if bird or devil!-Whether Tempest sent, or whether tempesttossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-On this home by Horror haunted-tell meTruly, I impore-Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-Tell me-tell me, I implore!”Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still isSitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just aboveMy chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of aDemon’s that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o’er him streamingThrows his shadow on the floor’And my soul from out that shadow thatLies floating on the floorShall be lifted-nevermore!